We Were Just Playing Cards
by kingofthewilderwest
Summary: An unexpected office guest catches Team Mustang playing strip poker. In an even more unexpected turn of events, Olivier Armstrong decides to *JOIN* their game. Rated T (to be on the safe side) for some language, and because... of course... someone's gotta get naked.


**A/N: I've never played poker, much less strip poker, but I couldn't resist the opportunity for fun. Much thanks to jayalaw for our conversation inspiring the topic!**

* * *

"What sort of idiocy _is_ this?"

Those words weren't _exactly_ a question. After all, anyone who stepped into the room for half a second would understand the exact brand of idiocy here. No witness could misunderstand this for a common military operation, nor would anyone in the guilty party be able to cover this through some self-redeeming, dignity-saving excuse.

Not with the half-empty bottles of alcohol resting on the table alongside playing cards... the various articles of clothing strewn across desk surfaces or wadded to the floor… the distracted officers seated around this mess… and the one lieutenant in particular who was sprawled carelessly across his chair, every inch of him quite, very, totally, unmistakably naked.

He seemed oblivious to their latest guest, attention instead concentrated on one of the men across him. With a glare he stretched his right hand out, straining toward a box held _barely_ out of reach, and over his companions' cackling voices demanded, "Gimme back those cigarettes!"

"You obviously don't know how to play this game!" Breda gestured below the man's torso with a hoot. "Let me make the rules clear to you again: you have to _earn_ these back!"

"No I don't! Nobody _wears_ cigarettes!"

"They were in your pants pockets!"

"That doesn't count!"

"Losing your pants means losing everything in their pockets, too! Give it up, Havoc!" Fuery pestered from Breda's side. "The only thing you have left to bet and lose is the one cigarette in your mouth!"

 _That_ prospect was too much for a ticked Havoc to handle. But just as he was pulling himself up, about to launch his bare ass across the table, everyone else... froze. Statues. All at once.

They had finally noticed their guest.

The powerful, towering, dominating, imposing, and entirely _properly dressed_ Major General Olivier Mira Armstrong.

Everyone was scrambling at once. Mustang rushed forward to greet their guest, perfect composure only broken by the fast pace at which he moved. In fact the colonel's posture was _almost_ a proud enough display to make his lack of shirt go unnoticed. But Falman chucked his cards away at the same time he tried to salute; Breda was ducking from Falman's sudden card shower; Fuery was launching pants and underwear in Havoc's face; and Lieutenant Hawkeye, obviously abashed to be in this room at all, was covering her eyes with her hand in what was either her life's longest sigh, or a pathetic attempt to hide her face and identity.

Not even the colonel's most well-acted dignity could cover for the shitstorm transpiring behind him. Mustang's spoken greeting could barely be heard above the sounds of everyone else clambering, frantic.

Their guest was... to say the least... _unimpressed_.

"Humph!" she said in way of return, refusing to take the colonel's offered handshake. She peered around his shoulders to study his elite, hand-picked, highly-specialized, well-trained, perfectly disciplined officers. Two of them were now playing tug-of-war with Havoc's underpants.

"...our night off during a rather uneventful week, so for some fun, we decided to…"

Armstrong cut straight through Roy Mustang's excuse. "Aren't some of these men supposed to be on duty?" she jabbed.

He paused.

One of the personnel assigned for evening duty was, in fact, the man who had finally learned to be self-conscious about his naked ass, and was scrambling to reclothe himself before Armstrong could continue skeptically judging his jewels. Clearly, the Ice Queen's cold stare to his crotch was _not_ something that would boost confidence.

The other man assigned to tonight's late shift might have been the team's commanding officer.

Mustang, turning away from the spectacle and awkwardly scratching at his forehead, decided it best not to answer Olivier's question.

He instead plowed past the topic. The colonel swept his hands toward the game table in poorly attempted distraction tactics. His smile might have been winsome in less incriminating circumstances. "Whatever your reason for visiting East City, Major General, I'm sure your busy work leaves you with little free time," he said, voice silky smooth, "but how about one quick game with us before…"

"Sure."

That single syllable word came out gruff, hard, but it was in fact accepting his invitation. The colonel, wide-eyed, faked composure gone, could only gawk. After her long history of harsh dinner rejections, all her harrumphs and judgmental affronts, all her clearly-expressed low opinions of Colonel Roy Mustang, how could he have expected she would say "yes" here? Actually say "yes" to _this_?

Hawkeye was already excusing herself from the poker table to reassemble their cards. Their dealer needed the tools to the game. But the second Fuery and Falman tried to stand, they were met with the major general's unwavering frown, a glower so intense that a second later they were withering back in their seats again. There was no escape. Not for them. Not for Breda. Definitely not for Havoc. And not for Mustang, either.

Cards were dealt out for a new round, a new game of bluffs, bets, and blunders. Yet despite resuming their previous recreational activity, nothing felt the same as before. The room's atmosphere had shifted, shifted in such a way that, despite the soldiers now being fully clothed, every member of the party seemed to be shivering more from the chills. Even Havoc seemed uncomfortable at the prospect of removing a coat.

It was hard to say exactly what all changed. The environmental differences were subtle. Somehow everyone's faces appeared slightly more revealing. Somehow the cards played into different men's favors. Somehow the gamers' strategies were less stable than before. And there was… _something_ … goading Fuery into making other moves beyond safer folding strategies… _something_ that ignited Falman to take more risks. _Something_ that made Breda's confident logistics fail. _Something_ that played against Mustang's hand in particular.

Something cursing them all with impossibly bad results.

Fuery got away with discarding first his glasses, Breda his shoes, and Mustang his pocket watch. But the game continued past that.

Everyone watched as the colonel shouldered off his jacket.

Another round.

He set his first boot to the side.

Another round.

A second boot gone.

Another round.

The socks, gone. The colonel's face wasn't quite so confident as it had been in games before. Was that sweat on his forehead?

Another round.

He paused, reaching for the collar buttons of his white shirt. He glanced quickly over at the Major General, whose unwavering stare hurried his hand.

Another round.

Mustang paused longer this time before acting on another lost bet.

Another round.

Wasn't this… supposed to be a game of chance?

Loot grew to a laundry pile before the Major General. She leaned back in her chair, nonchalant, a relaxed posture which only made her seem more impossibly intimidating. And as she began to collect her share of jackets, and shoes, and socks, and even the colonel's two white gloves… her unblinking facial expression finally changed.

Just a small thing. Creeping up on her lips. The hint of a smile.

* * *

"You know how frozen the north is," Hawkeye commented to a colonel even more uninterested in paperwork than typical. Morning light streamed through the office windows, but Mustang appeared not to notice that, nor notice the document before him, nor notice the lieutenant's comments coming from beside him. Only after he gave a belated grunt did Riza realize he had, in fact, heard her.

"So it's not saying much, sir. Could you please quit sulking and get to your paperwork?"

His right hand twitched, but did not grab the pen resting near it.

It was becoming increasingly clear that no task would get done today. Not from the colonel. This sulking he exhibited now surpassed _any_ time that Hawkeye had called him useless in the rain.

Then again.

It wasn't every day that a Major General looked down at your crotch, raised her eyebrows, and commented flatly:

"I've seen bigger icicles in Briggs."


End file.
